The air is thick
with a rain that does not come.
This is a dreamless sleep
we wander through,
outside of time, where no one
ever looks. We pass by
as soldiers who have no home
but the war we have won,
and shuffle through
the streets like ghosts,
having no substance (they
look right through us, pretend
that we are not here,
and that they do not fear us).
Somehow, I remember
violence, though all the blood
that was shed was mine,
and I remember
sunlit days that never were,
a childhood that was
impossibly perfect,
somehow more real
than the one we really spent.
Where have I been?
I have traveled
to the beginning of the world,
and to its end,
but what I fear most of all
is this, here, now:
what is real I have no power on,
except to pray,
and believe that in this day
I will not fall when I walk,
that the ordinary
will not overwhelm me.
suzanne
9:12pm friday, 2nd september
It's beautiful to me.It's sad, but with triumph atlast.
suzanne